Things So Nebulous
by icecreamlova
Summary: Rosethorn has always liked birds. Or: four times Crane and Lark and Rosethorn were together, and one they weren't. Crane/Lark/Rosethorn, Crane/Rosethorn, Lark/Rosethorn


_Written for SMACKDOWN 2013 (Team Crane/Lark/Rosethorn), over at Fief Goldenlake._

* * *

**Things So Nebulous  
**_By icecreamlova_

- : -

one: things so nebulous

Ever since she was old enough to know that birds had _wings_, Rosethorn had known they were pests. They arrived in flocks that made wide shadows across fields of newly sprouted crops, and when Niva woke the next morning, if her father had not been careful, they would find their safeguards torn, and far too many seedlings gone.

Even so, Niva had never quite been able to _hate_ them.

- : -

Birds were never malicious. They could be demanding, and irritating, and painful if one's fingers weren't nimble enough to escape sharp beaks – but self-absorption was so far removed from

(that ugly feeling of a fight where words escaped her lips and couldn't be taken back. The walls seemed to press in around them, too small to contain the wildness of her anger. It was all she could do to breathe, but that had been difficult already these past months trapped within stone walls so old, they were almost painful. And _he_ thrived in the dusty tomes and had status enough to be on top of their idiotic social hierarchy, but seemed to lack the basic human awareness that she did not hunger for the same things. She'd thought their friendship _meant_ something, but she had never judged people as well as she wished. When it came to _people_...)

cruelty, they were incomparable.

Humans played games that coiled and twisted simple truths. Thinly veiled insults were child's play, really, and the result was _not_ being left red-faced but free, finally unburdened by the weight of kept secrets, but a self-satisfied smirk on one pair of lips, and the other pressed into a thin line.

Crane might needle her more than patches of briar, but he had never _pretended_.

- : -

Chicks, cupped in her hands and lighter than anything that size ought to be. Tiny claws hooked at her hands, never quite _sharp_ enough to break through skin that dragged at weeds for hours each day, but what she felt was _softness_. Warmth spreading across her palms, inquisitive eyes – and Rosethorn never forgot that these birds, however soft, knew their own minds.

(Mildew in the walls, rot in the wood, and her head _ached_ trying to coax them to retreat. It did not bother _Niva_ that their pollen hung suspended in the air, stubbornly resisting even the breezes sweeping through the house – but the walls shook with coughing from the other inhabitant.

"Enough." Hands settled unexpectedly on her shoulders, her heart racing as the world snapped back into focus.

Niva's head throbbed with even the tiny motion of turning around. Her lips parted, ready to snap an angry retort, but all that came out was, "I can _do_ this," and even to her, it sounded less sharp than _wavering_.

"Hush," said the former tumbler, her hands gentle on Niva's cheek. Niva closed her eyes, and felt thumbs brush softly across her lowered eyelids. Then the softest press of lips on her forehead, as light as air. "I know you can. We _all_ know you can. Not," she was quick to add, "that you particularly _care_ what others think, I know."

Niva inhaled sharply, and fragrance flooded her senses.

"That's right," Niva murmured, her voice thin and reedy and she _hated_ how that sounded, but maybe it was all right if _she_ was the only one who heard.)

Lark's kindness was warmer than the sun, but she had always known when to _push_.

- : -

Rosethorn had always liked birds.

And they had always loved her.

- : -

two: human anatomy

The body is an art form. Muscles and blood vessels and nerves running beneath the skin, and if he leans in close, Crane can trace the impatient twitches Rosethorn makes, the vessels running beneath the skin on the back of her hand, and brush his fingers down her back - from her neck to her hips.

The dip that is her spinal cord, between her shoulders, the spine of her scapula - just beneath her shoulders. He had known those for years, and yet somehow failed to notice the unusual, angular sharpness there when they returned from Lightsbridge.

(There had been so many parts he hadn't noticed: her ribs just this side of visible after meals and meals without appetite, the hollows in her cheeks, even the spark in her eye - gone. She had responded in moans and whispers, and he hadn't thought to wonder if it was because he was _all_ she had left there - the last thing to cling onto. Not until they returned to Winding Circle, and the tumblers came to Summersea.)

Lark's body is longer, even more graceful from her years as a tumbler. She has fingers longer than his, beautifully made and sensitive, and she laughs when he brushes over the tiny blood vessels across her palm. Then, Rosethorn on her side and watching them, he follows them up her arm - the pulse on the inside of her wrist, the pulse tucked in the crease of her elbow, and he follows them in kisses.

Lark isn't laughing; her breath hitches. A gasp when Rosethorn leans closer and joins in on the other side, kisses up her sides and brushing up her throat.

He hasn't known Lark's body nearly as long. He likes it.

They turn their attention to him. Fingers tracing the structures of his throat, Rosethorn's hand holding his chin in a strong grip, and she turns to Lark:

"Only humans have this," Rosethorn says, gesturing at the angle there. "One of those things you learn."

His throat is suddenly dry, at the feather light touches, and he waits to see what _they_ do.

- : -

three: warm and heavy

Daja wakes to... something.

It's still early. The sky is just leaving behind night's bruised purple to become that flat, light grey before dawn, forming a smooth backdrop against the familiar objects - made into odd shapes by the darkness - outside Discipline's window. Light curves in gentle ways around the furniture in Discipline's main rooms. She rubs her eyes, blinking against the ever-present shimmer of magic in the corner of her eye.

She is no longer sleepy. She had been exhausted when she returned from the forge the night before, but it was a good, clean exhaustion from a job done well, with only her success or failure, or possibly her pride, hinging on the result. No lives caught on the quality of worked metal. Less responsibility.

She's still not sure what woke her, but dismisses it for now.

There's a faint chill in the gentle, barely felt breeze whispering as it enters, but Daja's blankets are warm from the heat radiating from her body. She's about to slip out from between them when she hears... something. A soft thump from Lark's room. Floorboards creaking. In the near silence, even whispers are discernible - and Daja hears Rosethorn's soft laughter, drifting through the utter stillness.

She closes her eyes, as footsteps grows nearer - two pairs of feet, golden and fair, bringing their owners to their predawn ceremonies, she thinks, turning her head to shield her still sensitive eyes from flickers of magic. She waits until the footsteps pass, until the creak of Discipline's door swinging open, then the click as it shuts, have come and gone. Daja opens her eyes again, rises, and begins to roll up her blankets before the morning's begun.

Daja has just bent over when Lark appears in the corner of her eye - still very much _inside_ Discipline - smoothing the front of her habit.

"Good morning," Lark murmurs, her familiar, pleasant smile as warm as her voice. "You're up early."

Daja nods. "I feel much better."

Lark studies her for a moment, then nods.

"I thought you'd gone already," Daja can't stop herself from saying, just as Lark reaches the door.

Lark pauses, and there is again careful consideration in her eyes. Daja's cheeks warm; she's about to turn away and leave it be, but she doesn't need to. Lark seems to come to a decision, and beckons Daja over to stand beside her.

Curious despite herself, Daja comes, following Lark's gaze pointed. There are two figures by Discipline's front gate. One is short and stocky and utterly familiar. Her arms are crossed, but she's not _tense_, as Daja would have expected - because she recognises the second figure, too, though it took her longer. Tall, thin, and standing not quite straight, as if he's unable to support his own figure, though Daja knows he can and does labour for hours in his greenhouse.

She sees, out of the corner of her eye, that Lark's watching her - there's no worry in her eyes, but Lark is _watching_ her, not the other two. Daja feels the weight of trust on her shoulders; it feels warm rather than heavy.

Thoughts, choices, flow through her mind, and Daja chooses the one that feels right. She smiles at Lark, wordless at first, and then, "They're so _prickly_, both."

Lark laughs. "That they are." A glance at the sky. "It's almost dawn. I shouldn't be late." A kiss on Daja's cheek, and she's gone to join Crane and Rosethorn.

Daja watches from the door, for a few moments. Crane's height, Rosethorn's more diminutive figure, and Lark in between, turning to murmur something in Rosethorn's ear. Arms and shoulders brushing, just barely touching, as they leave, until the flicker of magic has vanished.

She watches for a moment longer, then continues with her day.

- : -

one she wasn't: only in dreams

Oh but she misses them both.

Her dreams are bittersweet and painful.

There's greenery all around her as she strolls through Crane's glasshouse - scowling, always, at the strangeness of plants blooming out of season - and he's watching, not without a touch of smugness, as she kneels by the tomato plant she'd exchanged so long ago. The only solution is to grab him by his habit and effectively _distract_ him with kisses, and the plants bending in to shield them from sight.

She doesn't remember the feeling of Crane's hands on her body, or the plants that made up that greenhouse.

There's warmth, and love, and well-worn rooms she calls home, and there's the woman who makes it _home_ stretched out beside her. The planes of Lark's back and how she stretches like a cat when she slips out; the sound of looms as Lark weaves; dishes and chores with the children, and once they've sent the children _away_ at last, they have time alone.

She doesn't remember Lark's face, and that hurts as much as the bruises down her arms and legs.

When she dreams, she is happy, and safe, and warm.

When she wakes, she is scared, and fleeing, and cold.

It's all she can do to hold on.

- : -

four: work in progress

It does people as much good to be out in the sun as it does plants with large, waxy leaves.

Lark brings a soft square of cotton that she keeps folded, for now, because they are all willing to sit cross-legged or curled up, or what have you, on the sweet-scented grass.

("Maybe weeds have _some_ sort of function, after all," Briar remarked with a grin, and Lark shooed him away, hiding her smile. Rosethorn shook her head, but she was smiling too.)

She's the first there, but doesn't worry about it. There's no emergency blazing through the temple that she's aware of - though it could change, as quickly as a loose thread carelessly pulled might unravel an untidy weave, Lark thinks, with a touch of sadness, a stronger taste of anger - and no, she's not going to think about that today. She smoothes the cotton along its folds, takes a deep breath, and smiles with determination at the sky.

Lark wonders if Rosethorn decided not to come, at the last moment. Lark wouldn't hold it against her; the sound of temple bells is louder here than almost anywhere else. It's why, despite the soft grass, the sunny day, and the primroses blooming in the cool, damp dirt in the corners of this small enclosure, people don't like coming here.

("At least no one will see me-" Rosethorn said. The sentence dropped off unfinished, and Lark and Rosethorn stared at each other. Rosethorn started again. "I'm coming. We're having it there.")

No. Rosethorn is coming, she knows it.

There's food, though not much, in the small basket she brought. Lark had been busy in the morning, settling in kids who did not dare settle in, and the food had brought smiles to their faces like no placating words or clean, airy rooms had so far. She had wanted to wait until the dishes looked less lonely to set them out, but she has nothing better to do but chatter in her own head, so Lark begins to distribute them on the grass.

Rosethorn does come. She arrives not long after Lark has finished, and shifted to stretch - as warm and relaxed as a cat bathing under the sunlight.

"Now there's a sight for sore eyes," Rosethorn remarks, her grin decidedly private and her eyes full of promise.

They are alone, so Lark laughs. It's usually _her_ who makes open overtures. She takes in Rosethorn's wind-rumpled hair, the fat back on her cheeks, and she says, "It really is."

There's something tense around Rosethorn's shoulders, but that can be dealt with soon enough.

Rosethorn's basket is larger. It's food, too, and candy as light as air. Lark approves.

It's not so long after that before Crane makes an appearance.

Lark is caught half-laugh again, which is always a good feeling, but she freezes when she sees him. There is dirt under his fingernails, dirt on the hem of his (expensive, surely he knows that's badly suited for gardening!) habit, and strangest of all, dirt streaked across his hair.

"_You_ looked like you angered a particularly irritable cat," Rosethorn says, a wobble in her voice.

Crane scowls at her. "You are uncannily correct. _Several_ cats. At least your previous students were-" He pauses, searching for the right word, but comes up empty.

It is the most beautiful sound in the world: Rosethorn laughing. Lark had missed it even more than she'd known these past three years, and she had hungered for it _plenty_.

"At least you didn't have to travel with her. What's the occasion again?" her lover pauses for breath to ask.

Lark shrugs. "It's summer, that's all, Rosie."

Rosethorn looks like she's about to protest, but Crane begins to relate his woes again - exchanging a knowing glance with Lark, while Rosethorn isn't looking.

They wait for the temple bells to ring, but Lark watches Rosethorn, and notices Rosethorn isn't watching the Hub.

It's a work in progress, for all of them.

- : -

**Well?**


End file.
